The House of Shadows (7 page)

‘I can vouch for that.’ Master Rolles undid the top clasp of his boiled leather jerkin. ‘My bailiffs saw what happened.’

‘Did they now?’ Cranston took another slurp from his wine skin but didn’t offer it to the others, a sign of his growing annoyance. ‘Master Rolles, you will have to vouch for many things. These corpses were found in your tavern. Two beautiful women, one killed by a crossbow bolt, the other by a dagger. I understand they were found in the hay barn?’

‘Yes, it is just across the yard.’

‘What were they doing there? Come on,’ Cranston barked. ‘Who hired this Judas Man’s chamber, who brought the message to his chamber? Who told these two girls to leave the tavern and go to a hay barn in the dead of night?’

The taverner wiped his sweat-soaked palms on his woollen hose.

‘Sir John . . .’

‘Don’t Sir John me. I am not Sir John or Sir Jack to you, but the Lord Coroner of London. In your eyes you must regard me as God Almighty on horseback. Answer my questions.’

‘We all have visitors at night,’ the taverner murmured. ‘About two weeks ago, on the Feast of St Hedwig, a customer brought me a message, told me I had a visitor outside—’

‘Of course,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘I am sure, Master Rolles, knowing what I do of you, you have many visitors at night: the cask of Bordeaux brought in without paying customs, the cloth from Bruges, farmers prepared to sell their meat without paying London tolls, fishermen who sell their catch without handing over any of their profits to the Guild.’

‘You can’t prove that,’ Rolles retorted.

‘Oh, one day I will! Sooner than you think, if you don’t answer my questions. This visitor . . .’

‘I went out to the yard,’ Rolles confessed. ‘There were three of them, all cloaked and cowled. I told them my time cost money. A silver coin was tossed at my feet. I asked them what they wanted. One man stepped forward, he was hooded and visored. I couldn’t recognise his voice or make out any emblem or sign. He asked me when the Great Ratting would take place. I told him. He said he wished to hire a chamber for a thief-taker, known as the Judas Man. He gave me a description and said he would arrive here, as he did, the afternoon before the Great Ratting. I was to give him safe lodgings, food and drink.’ The taverner spread his hands. ‘Why should I refuse good custom? I was paid in advance and given every assurance that more would be paid. After all, the Judas Man is a law officer. He is hardly likely to steal away in the dead of night. He arrived, and that’s all I know.’

‘You don’t know who brought the message?’ Athelstan asked.

The taverner twisted round. ‘Brother Athelstan, isn’t it? I know all about you.’

‘Do you now?’ the Dominican replied. ‘Then you are a better man than I. The message?’

‘Do you know everyone who comes to your church?’ Rolles taunted. ‘People come in and out of my tavern, every sort and ilk on a night like the Great Ratting.’ He pulled a face. ‘I cannot say.’

Rolles turned back to the coroner.

‘I’ve answered your questions.’ He gestured at Sir Maurice. ‘I have meals to prepare.’

Cranston lifted his foot, and pressed so firmly down on the toe of the taverner’s boot that the man winced in pain.

‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘you are only halfway through your story. I knew those beautiful girls.’ He gestured at the corpses. ‘Two sisters, Beatrice and Clarice, hair like the sun, eyes as blue as the summer sky, impudent and mischievous; now they lie cold, two of the most accomplished courtesans in Southwark. What were they doing in your hay barn?’

‘They came for the Great Ratting. They were looking for custom. Ouch!’ The taverner yelped, as Cranston pressed his foot back down.

‘They didn’t have to look for custom,’ Cranston declared. ‘Custom went looking for them, men greedy for their soft flesh and expert ways. Why were they in your hay barn?’

‘The stranger,’ Rolles gasped. Cranston took his boot away. ‘The stranger who hired the Judas Man paid me very well, silver coins, this year’s batch, freshly minted at the Tower. He told me that, on the night of the Great Ratting, I was to hire two accomplished whores, Beatrice and Clarice. Of course I knew their names. I told them they would be my guests.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘The stranger said that when the Great Ratting was over the whores were to meet him in the hay barn. I was simply told to tell them that they would be lavishly paid. I did what he asked. I sent the usual message to their keeper, Mother Veritable.’ Rolles forced a smile. ‘I put the message to be collected in the Castle of Love; it’s a pocket on a tapestry in the solar, the usual way I tell Mother Veritable to send her girls for customers who have a need. Mother Veritable—’

‘Oh, that cruel-hearted hag,’ Cranston broke in. ‘You haven’t met her yet, Brother Athelstan? Mother Veritable, with a face as sweet as honey and a soul of sour vinegar. I will be paying her a visit soon. Well, continue, Master Rolles.’ He lifted his boot.

‘The two whores turned up,’ Rolles gabbled on, ‘dressed in all their finery.’

Cranston stretched out his hand. ‘I noticed their jewellery was missing.’

‘I have it in safe keeping.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ Cranston grinned, ‘and I’ll take it before we leave. Brother Athelstan can sell it for the poor. But, Master Troubadour, do continue with your tale.’

‘After the Great Ratting was over, I told the girls to go to the hay barn. I’d lit a lantern horn. They would be safe, warm and dry. That’s all I know, Lord Coroner. I had forgotten all about them until early this morning, when an ostler discovered their corpses.’

‘And I suppose nobody saw anything?’

‘We didn’t,’ exclaimed Sir Maurice, who was leaning against the door. ‘We always stay at the Night in Jerusalem. We have never known such excitement! The Great Ratting, the fight in the tap room, the whores being cut down in the hay barn. Like the old days, Sir Jack.’

Cranston looked sharply at him.

‘I have been standing here watching you,’ the knight explained. ‘I remember Master Rolles from the war years, but now I recall you. You were in Sir Walter Manny’s expedition out of Calais. Do you remember?’

Cranston smiled and brushed back his mass of grey hair.

‘Of course, days of glory, eh? I was freshly knighted. I was handsome then, slim as a whippet, fast as a falling hawk, but I don’t recall you, sir.’

‘I was a lowly squire,’ Clinton replied.

‘So many different memories,’ Cranston mused.

He got to his feet, walked over and, crouching down, pulled back the sheet covering the corpses of the two women.

‘I knew these two girls,’ he smiled over his shoulder, ‘though not in the carnal sense. I also knew their mother, a very famous whore! A woman of mystery. She was famous throughout Southwark. One night . . .’ Cranston paused, ‘Satan’s tits,’ he whispered, ‘one night she disappeared.’

Athelstan felt a prickle of cold on his back. The coroner had recalled something significant.

‘Guinevere the Golden,’ Cranston murmured.

His remark brought a gasp of surprise from Brother Malachi, who was sitting beside Athelstan. The Benedictine sprang to his feet, fingers going to his lips, his agitation so obvious Athelstan became alarmed.

‘What is it, Brother?’ Cranston re-covered the corpses and got to his feet. The Benedictine looked as if he was about to faint. Athelstan put down his writing satchel.

‘I don’t know.’ Malachi scratched his forehead. ‘I don’t really know.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan. ‘I don’t want to talk here.’

‘You can use the solar,’ Rolles offered. ‘I’ll take you there myself.’

‘And me?’ the Judas Man asked. ‘Are you finished with me, Sir John?’

‘No, I am not finished with you, but you can return to your post. On no account leave Southwark without my permission.’

‘The corpses.’ The taverner stopped at the door. ‘They’ll begin to ripen.’

‘Flaxwith,’ Cranston roared.

The bailiff, followed by his two dogs, came hurrying across the yard.

‘Have these corpses removed. They are to be taken across the river and buried in the strangers’ plot outside Charterhouse. The Corporation will bear the cost.’

Athelstan and Cranston left the outhouse with the others and crossed the muck-strewn yard. A faint drizzle had begun to fall, so the passageway into the tavern seemed even more warm and sweet-smelling. They passed the tap room, still being vigorously cleaned after the previous night, and into the more comfortable part of the tavern, the solar, a large chamber which overlooked a well-laid-out garden.

‘I grow my own herbs and vegetables,’ Rolles explained. ‘So visitors don’t come at the dead of night,’ he continued sharply, ‘to offer me leeks and shallots for sale.’

Cranston laughed and patted him on the shoulder. The taverner shrugged this off and pointed to the polished wooden table which ran down the centre of the room.

Cranston sat at the top, Athelstan on his right, with Malachi and Sir Maurice on his left. Athelstan placed his writing satchel on the floor. What he learned today he would write up later. Brother Malachi still looked pale. The taverner’s offer of a jug of Rhenish wine and a plate of comfits was eagerly accepted by Cranston. Athelstan believed the taverner wished to eavesdrop, so he nudged Sir John under the table. The coroner took the hint and loudly began to praise the solar’s furnishings, pointing at the mantled hearth, where a log fire spluttered, the coloured drapes above the wooden panelling, the glass in the windows. Despite the taverner’s obvious annoyance, the coroner heaped praise upon praise and continued to do so until Rolles had served the wine and the silver dish of marchpane, and left the room. Even then Cranston got to his feet, still talking, opened the door and slammed it firmly shut.

‘Well done, Brother, well done.’ He smiled, tapping the side of his nose.

Malachi’s colour had returned, and he drank greedily at the wine but refused to eat anything. Athelstan wondered what had so alarmed the Benedictine. He was, Athelstan reflected, a youngish man, yet he appeared to have aged. His usual cheeriness had crumpled, the furrows around his mouth were more obvious, his skin was pasty, his eyes tired, his mouth slack.

‘Brother Malachi need not tell you. I shall,’ Sir Maurice offered, patting the Benedictine gently on the arm. ‘Twenty years ago the French signed the peace treaty of Bretigny, and the war with France ended, at least for a while. I and my companions . . . well, Sir Jack, you know how it was, young knights with little land and no wealth? We all came from Kent, we’d fought across the Narrow Seas, but none of us had taken any plunder or ransoms. We became mercenaries. The Crusader, Peter of Cyprus, organised an expedition against the Turks in North Africa. He hoped to seize Alexandria and free the trade routes in the Middle Sea.’

‘I remember it,’ Cranston nodded. ‘An army assembled in London. The King loaned ships, a squadron, berthed here in the Thames, cogs and merchantmen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Sir Maurice, I think I know what you are going to talk about. The treasure, the Crusaders’ war chest?’

‘The Lombard treasure,’ Sir Maurice agreed. ‘Peter of Cyprus raised a huge loan from the Bardi in Lombard Street. Now the Crusader fleet lay at anchor in the Thames, taking on men and supplies. It became common knowledge that the Lombard treasure was to be taken aboard. It was decided the treasure should be moved by night, and as few people as possible would be told when and how it was to be transported to the flagship,
The Glory of Westminster.
The leader of the English force, Lord Belvers, a Kentish man, apparently arranged for two of our company, two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer, to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it by barge to the flagship.’ He coughed. ‘We learned all this later.’

He paused as Brother Malachi lifted a hand.

‘My monastic name is Malachi, a famous Celtic saint, but I am Thomas Culpepper by birth. Sir Richard was my brother.’ He sipped his wine. ‘We all came up to London, excited by the prospect of war, glory and plunder. The Pope had promised a plenary indulgence for all those who took the Cross. We called ourselves the Company of the Golden Falcon – that was our emblem – eight of us in all, led by Sir Maurice here, whilst I was their chaplain. We all hoped to achieve great things, to win glory for God and Holy Mother Church. Only afterwards did we discover that two of our company, my brother included, had been chosen for a special task.

‘We all lodged here, not so luxuriously as we do now.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Master Rolles had just bought the tavern from his profits. You, Sir John, were not coroner, and there was no priest at St Erconwald’s. Richard was young and vigorous. He loved to dance, he thrilled to the sound of music. While we waited for the army to assemble and the fleet to sail, he and the rest caroused in the fleshpots of London. We stayed here for some time. Richard became infatuated with a whore, a courtesan.’

‘Guinevere the Golden?’ Athelstan asked.

Malachi nodded. ‘He had known her for months. Lord Belvers had often sent him to London on this errand or that. Guinevere became pregnant, twin daughters. Richard suspected . . .’ Malachi’s voice trailed off.

‘God in Heaven!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Are you saying those two corpses were your brother’s daughters, your nieces?’

‘Possibly.’ Malachi spat the word out. ‘But there again, Guinevere had many admirers; those children could have been anybody’s. Now the Lombard treasure arrived, it was taken from the Tower by barge and apparently handed over to my brother. He was to transport it by boat to the flagship.’ Malachi fell silent.

‘But neither the barge nor the Lombard treasure ever reached the flagship,’ Sir Maurice explained.

‘Impossible,’ Athelstan said.

Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Believe me, both the river and the city were searched. Of the boatmen who brought the barge, or the two knights, not a trace was found, nor of the treasure they were transporting. They all vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘I remember this.’ Cranston refilled his wine cup. ‘I was in Calais at the time and returned to London just before Christmas. A thorough search was organised.’